


w

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Branding, Dark Will Graham, Established Relationship, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Knives, M/M, Marks, Pain, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, Scarification, Scars, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "You're mine now – all of you."





	w

"It's rather ugly, isn't it?"

Hannibal closes his eyes, turning his face away as Will's fingers dance lightly from the nape of his neck, over his arched back. His hand flattens, warm and wide, on the brand between Hannibal's shoulder blades, low enough to sit behind his heart. He still remembers the burn, the leaching pain that lingered and lingered, the scent of his own flesh, burning. It's been years since he bore that wound, and yet every brush of fabric against it when he dresses or undresses, every time he catches a glimpse of the edge in the mirror, every time Will remarks on it or touches it, he remembers with sharp clarity, the moment the hot metal connected with his skin.

Such is the burden and glory of a mind palace like his; he cannot forget, even when he wants to.

When he doesn't answer, except to shake and press his lips together, Will moves his hand, digging in with his nails. Hannibal hates how the raised edges of the brand submit to his tugging nails, like he might be able to pick it away, and off. The scars are white, now, age-old.

Will moves again, lightning-fast, and straddles his lower back with a soft sigh. He cups Hannibal's shoulders, pushing them together so the raised lines of the brand rub together – the sensation is dull, Hannibal doesn't feel it like he might feel his fingers touching each other, but he feels the way Will's palms give when he presses against it.

Will growls, and rears up, putting all his weight on Hannibal's back, making sure Hannibal can bear it before he ruts forward, his cock leaking slick and warm over the bumps and edges. Hannibal growls, and imagines that the brand is raw and new, feels burned all over again as Will ruts into the dip his hands have made, accentuating the natural valley of Hannibal's spine, raising the ravine with tense muscles that flex under his hands.

Will laughs. "I know you want it gone," he says, and leans down so he can bite Hannibal's ear, nuzzle his flat hair. His hips roll again, thighs gripping Hannibal's flanks tightly, toes curled beneath his hips as he forces Hannibal harder against the mattress, drags his nails along the edges of the brand and pinches the skin until it stings.

Hannibal shivers as Will's cock drives along his spine in a particularly harsh thrust, his knees squeezing Hannibal's arms to his sides, making him feel constricted, choking around his inhale. Will laughs again, delighted by Hannibal's discomfort, his caged-animal shuddering.

"I could take it away," he breathes, and Hannibal opens his eyes, turns his head to try and see Will's face, but Will moves so all he can see is Will's curls, haloing his head, dark and damp with sweat. Will's cock twitches against his back, leaking anew. "Cut it out of you and leave my own mark instead. Just like you did with me."

Hannibal's fingers curl against Will's calves, gripping him tightly, giving a bite of nails all his own.

Will snarls, and forgoes one of his handholds to fist in Hannibal's hair, pushing him hard against the bed as he rears up, beast-like, and cups his other hand, forming a furrow between Hannibal's spine and his palm for him to fuck between.

"I think I will," he says, dark with promise. Hannibal shivers, and doesn't respond, for he doesn't know what he would say – the idea of Will marking him in such a way is not unpleasant, but the pain, the _burn_ …

Will grunts, going still, his hand tight in Hannibal's hair and yanking savagely as he comes over the brand, spilling thick and hot, dripping down Hannibal's back. Hannibal shivers, makes a quiet, questioning sound, and Will laughs, and leans down to bite his ear again, his hands sliding to the thick restraints lying on either side of Hannibal.

He buckles them down – one around his hips, one beneath his shoulders, and a third around the back of his neck. They are, Hannibal knows, placed _just_ so, so Will can still see the brand, covered in his come.

Will sighs, and his teeth turn gentle, and he kisses Hannibal's flushed neck. "Get some rest, baby," he purrs. "I'll come back for you when it's time."

Hannibal lets out a weak noise, tensing, but he can't move – there are cuffs around his ankles, and Will ties his wrists down too, so he can't push himself up from the bed and can't fight himself free. Will's weight moves from him, and he sighs, and Hannibal can't see him, where he's positioned.

Will's thumb brushes through his warm, slick mess, and Hannibal closes his eyes when he feels Will paint a 'W' onto his back.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "That'll do nicely."

 

 

Hannibal wakes to Will pulling the strap across his shoulders free. He shifts, growling in discomfort – Will's come has dried on his skin, turned tacky and clinging, and Will laughs, and settles across his hips again.

He begins to wipe Hannibal down, but Hannibal hears, and smells, antibiotic salve. Hears the crackle of a fire, the pop and shatter of sparks as something is warmed against it. He tenses, turns his head, blinking up at Will as Will bathes him gently.

Beside Will, on the bed, is a jar of antibiotic ointment. As well as that, a sewing kit, and a large, straight knife.

Will tilts his head when he sees Hannibal is awake, and smiles, wide and sweet. He leans forward, and has a thick piece of plastic in his hand, and he presses it to Hannibal's mouth. Hannibal parts his lips, accepting the gag between his teeth, groaning when Will attaches it, pulling it tight around his head.

"This is gonna hurt," Will promises. "Scream all you like."

Hannibal's fists clench, as Will moves the wet cloth away, sets it down, and takes the knife in hand. Hannibal closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, digs his teeth around the gag, as Will starts to cut. He is quick and precise, and Hannibal groans, shuddering and starting to sweat.

Will digs the knife into the edges of the brand, raising the edges and shearing them off. Blood gushes up, hot and thick, and Hannibal tosses his head, shoulders tensing, trying to pull and struggle, but he can't get free – not just the restraints, but Will himself is holding him down.

Will laughs at him as he struggles, the sound as cutting and cruel as his knife, as he cuts Hannibal's brand free from his skin, revealing red flesh that grows slick with blood. Hannibal imagines him cutting down to the bone, exposing the backs of his ribs – he knows Will wouldn't take it that far, he doesn't delight in torture, just views pain as a necessary consequence to achieving his goal.

He cuts, until Hannibal's back and flanks are soaked with blood. The scent of it is overwhelming, makes Hannibal gag and wretch, shuddering with pain. Tears form in his eyes and he refuses to let them fall, as Will drags his knife around the circle of the brand, tearing the edges away.

Then, he stands, and Hannibal gasps, breathing heavily. Will returns to him and Hannibal can smell the heat of the iron.

He shakes his head rapidly – he can't, he can't -. Will touches the hot tip to his back and Hannibal screams into the gag, bucking and convulsing as hard as he can, though it does little. When this happened before, he retreated to his mind palace, would not give his captors the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. But Will, he cannot hide from Will. He screams as Will drags the tip down, forming the first part of the 'W'.

"I know, baby," he breathes, and pets Hannibal's shaking back. "I know."

He makes the second part of the 'W', the shorter upward stroke, and tuts, pulling the iron away. He rises again to return it to the fire, and Hannibal sobs, saliva pooling in his mouth and leaking out around the edges of the gag as he pulls his lips back, tries to breathe through it, tries to escape.

He can't escape. Will returns and finishes his letter, and sets the hot iron down again, the tip of it glowing orange in Hannibal's periphery, hanging off the side of the bed so it doesn't burn the sheets. Will settles on his hips again, and Hannibal is supremely glad, despite it all, that he's not hard from burning Hannibal, from hurting him like this.

Will takes the sewing kit, and Hannibal tenses at the flick of a lighter, as he sterilizes the needle, threads it, and begins to sew up the borders of the brand. The pricks of the needle hurt less, Hannibal doesn't know if he could feel anything except the burn. The stench of branded flesh throws him back to that time in the pen, and fills him with a dread that doesn't belong with Will – Will loves him, Will takes care of him, but it _hurts_ , and Hannibal remembers how much it had hurt, after – carrying Will away from Muskrat, and then, Will's cold disregard of him.

 _I don't want to think about you anymore_.

The tears do fall, at that, and he trembles as Will finishes sewing him up. Will sighs, and flattens his hands on Hannibal's shoulders, leans down to kiss his sweaty hair.

"You did such a good job, baby," he murmurs. His hands leave, and when they return it is with a burst of the antibiotic ointment, the scent of it reminding Hannibal of similar things – using it on Will's cheek, and his gunshot wound, when they were recovering from the fight with the dragon. Binding Will's hand with it when he accidentally cut himself on one of Hannibal's knives. Kissing it from Will's forehead when one of their hurts had landed with Will a grazed temple and bruised jaw.

Will's hands are gentle, wide, and warm, as he carefully coats the new brand and the stitches with the ointment. Then, he presses a thick square of bandages on Hannibal's back, tapes down the edges, and sighs, kissing over it.

It burns, it hurts so badly. Hannibal sags and sobs as Will takes the gag from him, unbinds his hands, his ankles, his hips and neck. He leans over Hannibal, his chest brushing the aching wound, and Hannibal shakes his head, tries to curl up, wanting to hide his tears and blood and sweat from his lover as Will holds him.

Will kisses his cheek, and sighs. "Do you need to be left alone?"

By God, that would be so much worse.

Hannibal shakes his head, breathes in unsteadily. "Please don't," he replies.

Will nods, and holds him more tightly, and though his weight is terrible against the wound, the thought of Will's absence burns even more sharply. Hannibal forces a sore hand back, grips Will's thigh, digs in with nails.

Will sighs. "When you're feeling better, you can hurt me back," he promises, knowing Hannibal will. Oh, he'll destroy Will for this – maybe brand him as well, or carve his own name into Will's thighs so he cannot spread them, cannot shower, can't move without feeling the scars.

Will kisses his flushed cheek, shivering heavily. "I can't believe you actually let me do that," he murmurs – for that is the truth. If at any point Hannibal had told him 'No', or told him to stop, Will would have. But Hannibal knows he would much prefer, if he must be scarred and marked in this way, for that mark to be by Will's hand.

Will's touch loosens, drags down his bloody flanks, He settles his palm over the exit wound in Hannibal's abdomen, and sighs again when Hannibal tenses. "This one you can keep," he says quietly, and kisses Hannibal's shoulder. His hand moves again, touching the scar on Hannibal's wrist. "These, too."

Of course he can – they are Will's design, too, even if by proxy.

Hannibal turns his head, touching his forehead to Will's cheek, and shudders in pain. He tries to move, to roll onto his side, and Will lifts to his knees to let him, meets his eyes. Hannibal finds Will's gaze fierce and dark, his face pale. He didn't enjoy doing it, but he likes the idea of the effect, after, just like Hannibal does.

Will cups his cheek, and kisses him deeply. "I love you," he breathes, and oh, that sensation hurts as much as the branding did. Will licks the corner of his sore mouth, nuzzles the tears on his face, trembles at the taste of them. "You're mine now – all of you."

"It's always been that way," Hannibal replies, voice hoarse from screaming.

Will nods, and closes his eyes. Wraps his arms carefully around Hannibal and puts his cheek to Hannibal's shoulder. He cups Hannibal's heart, feels it thrumming, and Hannibal covers Will's hand with his own.

"Let me get you something to eat," he says. "And water. I'll be gone for just a minute, I swear."

"Take that Godforsaken thing with you," Hannibal replies, nodding to the iron. Will nods, expression flashing with something dark, half-guilty, and he straightens, and takes the iron with him when he leaves. He keeps his promise, and returns a moment later with water and warm thigh cuts from their latest hunt, and sits with Hannibal on the bed, feeding him by hand since Hannibal can't bring himself to sit upright.

Will smiles at him, as sweet and warm as ever, and kisses Hannibal when the meal is finished.


End file.
